Voulez Vous
by Alba Nix
Summary: It's an ordinary day at 221B apart from the fact that Sherlock's speaking in French. What John doesn't know is that he has an aim. What Sherlock doesn't know is that while John may not speak French, he's almost fluent in Sherlock.


Depending on how you look at it, this is an exercise in either seeing how much nerdiness I can apply to Sherlock, or in illustrating how well Sherlock and John understand each other.

I've seen this idea frequently (Sherlock speaking different languages, and doing so when he feels like it) but I've never seen it actually done, with Sherlock actually just saying normal Sherlock things but in a language that John doesn't understand. I've used French, incidentally, because it's the language (after English) that I speak best.

At first I said to myself, 'No, you can't actually write a story where the dialogue is in French, that is too esoteric even for you,' but I figured that it was very Sherlock and quite novel, at least, so why not? I've tried to get this as close to what John would feel as possible; please don't be too infuriated! For this reason I haven't translated the French _in_ the story, but there's a link to a translation of all Sherlock's dialogue at the end, and an actual clickable link in my profile. Alternatively, you can read the story over at AO3, where there are optional annotated translations.

This is now revised, to reflect the style in which I'm writing the sequel, and with improved French. Enjoy!

* * *

**Voulez-Vous**

John immediately knew that something was afoot when he came home and Sherlock _wasn't _destroying the flat. The sitting-room was as tidy as he'd left it, and there was no burning smell coming from the kitchen. The detective was on the sofa, in a relatively normal position, looking at some sheet music with a light smirk on his face. John was scared.

He cleared his throat.

'Ah, John,' said Sherlock. At least, that's what John thought he heard. He could have sworn that he sounded marginally different. Paranoia, he told himself. Was it really so bad to find Sherlock _not _blowing something up?

He soon discovered that he should have just gone with his instinct.

'Tu as acheté du lait? J'ai tout bu. Je l'ai demandé à Madame Hudson mais elle n'a pas compris.'

_French mood. Right._ John sighed and rubbed his temples. 'I don't speak French, Sherlock.'

'Du lait,' said Sherlock as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, looking up at him plaintively. 'J'ai envie d'une tasse de thé. _Thé._'

'Tea?' John ventured.

'Oui, du thé!' cried Sherlock exasperatedly; John took this as an affirmative. 'La boisson dont nous buvons environ sept tasses par jour?' Sherlock went on, determined that he would finish his explanation if he had to give it in the first place. 'Et naturellement, pour boire du thé, il faut du lait. J'ai même composé un poème pour t'éclairer - où est-ce que tu vas? Peu importe, tu fais du thé, mais _Jean_, il y a un temps tu as consacré un quart d'heure à m'enseigner qu'il ne faut pas partir alors qu'on est en train de parler! J'aurais pu l'effacer mais je l'ai retenu!' Yep, he was definitely saying the name differently. 'Jean, tu m'écoutes?'

John marched into the kitchen to make the tea, mainly so that Sherlock didn't see him smiling. He'd never really liked the French language but Sherlock made it sound bearable. But there was no way he'd admit that to the git. He would try his best to tolerate this so that it didn't go on for too long, like his German phase. Now _that _had been hard going. It was like listening to that ridiculously long Charlie Chaplin Hitler sketch over and over again. But in German.

'Je vois bien ton sourire, cela ne vaut pas la peine de me le cacher!' called Sherlock.

'Don't understand you, Sherlock,' John shouted back warmly.

'Tu ne le caches pas à toutes tes dulcinées!' Sherlock protested. 'Tu te donnes beaucoup de mal pour assurer qu'elles le voient! Si j'étais quelqu'un d'autre, cela me blesserait! Tu n'as qu'un seul colocataire, et pourtant tu le prives de ton sourire!'

John shook his head and started boiling the kettle.

'Tu ne me prêtes pas attention!' Sherlock scolded from the sitting-room. 'Tu fais deux poids, deux mesures!'

'Was there a number two in there somewhere?'

Sherlock huffed, but it was more like a laugh. 'Si tu fixais un temps ton attention sur ton colocataire, tu comprendrais bien plus que ce que tu saisis en ce moment! C'est parce que tu n'écoutes que les mots individuels.'

'Individual,' John translated half-heartedly. 'Yeah, you certainly are, Sherlock. I don't get the French, sometimes they have words just like ours - why can't they just say them the same, then?'

'Dans ce cas, ce ne serait plus une langue étrangère!' Sherlock sounded aghast.

'Stranger?' John suggested. He returned to the sitting-room and placed a cup of steaming tea in front of Sherlock, who looked positively devilish. 'You're enjoying yourself far too much there, aren't you?'

'Jean,' said Sherlock pointedly, and John didn't know whether it was a shudder or a shiver that ran down his spine; 'Jean, je pourrais te raconter toutes mes pensées idiotes et tu ne le saurais pas. Et je pourrais me dire que je m'étais déchargé de tous mes secrets et je n'aurais plus à m'affoler, mais tu n'en saurais pas plus pour autant, et donc ne m'en détesterais pas, et surtout tu ne me quitterais pas; c'est une situation idéale, n'est-ce pas?'

'What's the ideal situation?'

'Tu vois, tu comprends, c'est bien!' cried Sherlock enthusiastically, then he stopped mid-spring, confusion spreading across his face. 'Est-ce bien? Je ne sais pas. Et si tu comprends quelque chose d'important? Ah, en effet, c'est plus idéal que tout - tu comprendras peut-être quelque petit détail et la curiosité te rongerait mais tu seras trop occupé de regretter ta nonchalance, et de t'imaginer ce que tu aurais pu puiser si tu m'avais accordé l'attention nécessaire.'

John sat back in his chair, amused, and attempted to dip a Rich Tea biscuit into his mug without it falling apart. 'I got… curiosity, and necessary attention. You think because I'm curious I'll give you the necessary attention? What if I'm not curious?' he challenged.

Sherlock turned to look at him slowly; oddly enough, he was gaping at him.

'What's so surprising about that?' John asked. 'I got three words, Sherlock. Have no fear, I haven't suddenly started approaching your multilingual genius.'

'Oui, tu as compris trois mots et tu as su ce que je voulais dire,' said Sherlock slowly, looking rather bewildered. He reclined on the sofa and took up his thinking pose. 'Tu as pu deviner le sens d'une phrase entière, à partir de trois mots… Je sais que je t'ai conseillé d'entendre au-dessus des mots individuels, mais ce n'est pas la technique à laquelle je pensais… C'est remarquable… Pourquoi alors es-tu incapable de remarquer la connexion entre des détails quand on est en train d'enquêter sur quelque chose?'

John studied his face and tried to work out what that question might have been; it was largely reflexive, he thought. 'Um… you're wondering why I'm so stupid?'

Sherlock tilted his hand to either side. 'Presque.' John didn't know what 'presk' meant, but from the fact that Sherlock's gaze was fixed on him almost wonderingly suggested that it was not his stupidity at issue, rather his lack of it. This was becoming quite entertaining, he had to admit. He decided that the best approach was not to try and understand what Sherlock _said _but what _Sherlock_ said. It seemed to be working so far. He could extract much more meaning from Sherlock's words when looking at him, compared to the big fat nothing he got while he was in the kitchen, and if he listened to the intonation carefully then he could probably figure out as much as he normally could. 'French mood' was only as bad as 'scientific mood' after all.

'Oh, why I'm so stupid most of the time when I can be quite… not stupid?' he asked.

He was really starting to enjoy the look of surprise on Sherlock's face.

'Well, really, Sherlock, it's no different to the amount of meaning I normally get from what you say to me,' John grinned by way of answer.

Sherlock scowled. 'Je ne suis pas aussi énigmatique.'

'You certainly are when you're deducing,' John clarified. He nodded smugly and put the rest of his biscuit in his mouth cheerfully.

'C'est vrai,' mused Sherlock. 'Mais maintenant tu comprends seulement les détails nécessaires! Comment? Qu'est-ce que tu fabriques?' He looked at John accusingly. 'Tu triches. Tu caches un dictionnaire.'

'Where would I be hiding a dictionary, Sherlock?' John demanded, spreading his arms. 'And this isn't the Tardis, either.'

'Le… quoi?'

John sighed. 'It's the big blue box that the Doctor travels in. It has this magic system where it automatically translates all languages so if you travel to France in the French Revolution or whatever, you'll hear the people speaking English, and they'll hear you speaking French.'

'Ridicule,' scoffed Sherlock. 'Il est impossible d'entendre une chose quand on dit quelque chose d'autre.'

'I dunno, it's just taking subtext to a new level.' John smirked. 'I think you'd like Doctor Who.' He held up a hand at Sherlock's scornful expression. 'It's about a lone wolf who runs around saving the world, getting his companions into danger, but they love him for it anyway.'

Sherlock looked at John very sharply. 'Compagnes au pluriel,' he said softly. 'Elles le quittent, non? Il change de compagne dans toutes les séries. Moi, je n'en ai qu'un.'

John heard 'pluriel' and supplied the rest himself. 'You mean you've just got one,' he stated. He smiled. 'Yeah, that's true. And you're not replacing me, either. Your Tardis is spoken for.' He paused. 'That sounded a bit wrong, didn't it?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'En tout cas, je ne m'intéresse pas au Docteur Qui - '

'I really doubt the French would translate the title, Sherlock.'

'J'ai mon propre Docteur,' said Sherlock proudly. 'Et compagnon _et_ médecin; je suis gâté,' he added half-seriously.

John laughed. 'I'm your companion _and _your doctor, right. But the Doctor isn't a proper doctor. That's just what people call him because he's from a different planet and humans can't pronounce his real name.'

'C'est un imposteur!' Sherlock gasped, and they both began to laugh. 'Attends - il vient d'une autre planète - pourquoi est-ce que tu fais une comparaison entre moi et un être qui vient d'une autre planète?' He gestured alternately to himself and the air as he spoke.

'Sorry, but you are from another planet,' said John consolingly. 'Planet Sherlock.'

'Mais tu y vis, toi aussi,' Sherlock protested, but he seemed almost nervous about it.

John folded his arms. 'Yeah. It looks like I _am_ a space traveller, doesn't it?'

He was unable to fathom the look that crossed Sherlock's face now. There was the affectionate disdain at John saying something nice, but partially metaphorical and therefore implausible, about their friendship; there was still some of that wonder at the fact that John was able to make out anything of what he said; but beneath that, Sherlock looked almost like he himself had just stepped onto a new planet.

They were distracted from their continental camaraderie by a knock on the flat's inner door. John shot an alarmed glance at Sherlock, who merely groaned silently and closed his eyes as if trying to ward off a particularly excruciating migraine. As John had just begun to expect, the door opened and in walked Mycroft Holmes, looking, as always, irritated by the number of stairs.

'Hello, Sherlock; John,' said Mycroft in his pleasantly barbed manner.

Sherlock made a vague 'hmph' noise. John stood up. 'Hi, Mycroft. Would you like a cuppa?' No point asking the man what he was there for; he'd tell them when he pleased.

Mycroft looked positively appalled by the term 'cuppa' but swallowed determinedly and said, 'A cup of tea would be lovely, John; thank you.' He glared pointedly at Sherlock while John pottered back into the kitchen. 'Hello to you too, dear brother,' he said sarcastically, lowering himself into the chair opposite John's.

'Qu'est-ce que tu fais là, Mycroft?' demanded Sherlock; even John could understand that one.

'Oh, having a French day, are we?' sang Mycroft. 'I would have guessed, but for the fact that the good doctor looks less than suitably infuriated.'

'Il se débrouille.'

'On GCSE French?' wondered Mycroft.

'Non, je ne crois pas. S'il l'a étudié, il l'a aussitôt oublié.' He sprang up and looked searchingly at Mycroft. 'Il bouleverse mes plans de fond en comble, Mycroft! J'allais dévoiler mes pensées intimes mais il comprend,' he confessed urgently. 'Il arrive à savoir ce que je veux dire!'

'Are you sure he's not just guessing?' Mycroft probed; he sounded strained, but he didn't miss a beat. John rolled his eyes: only the Holmes brothers.

'Non, il le _sait _- et bien, il pourrait bien s'agir de conjectures, je suppose, mais c'est peu probable ; personne ne peut avoir toujours raison simplement par hasard…'

John returned with the tea. 'That's nice to know.'

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at him.

'That you were planning on insulting me but I'm getting it,' he explained. When they continued to stare, he looked back at them doubtfully. 'Oh, is that… not what you meant? That would be a bit awkward, seeing as…'

'C'est exactement ce que je voulais dire,' barked Sherlock at the same time as Mycroft said mysteriously, 'You are simultaneously exactly correct and completely wrong, I imagine.'

John looked between the brothers. Sherlock was giving him that, 'Well, aren't you going to do as I say?' look, mixed with what John had designated as his 'cat from Shrek' expression ('Shrek? What on earth is _Shrek_, John? That isn't even a word!'); Mycroft was smiling expectantly, which was rather nauseating. 'Okay,' he said simply, sitting down opposite Mycroft. 'Soooo, Mycroft, how are things at the top of the world?'

Sherlock sniggered. Mycroft glared at him. 'All is well at the moment, thank you, John. I suspect there's going to be some trouble with our relationship to the EU- ' Mycroft had a certain way of _speaking _letters rather than saying them, whereby it was impossible to tell if he was being disparaging about the thing itself or just didn't like the alphabet; 'but for now, it's rather dull, really.'

'Presque tout ce que mon frère fait est ennuyeux,' drawled Sherlock dismissively. 'Il vit pour s'occuper des besoins des autres, quelle corvée.'

'Sherlock,' John scolded. 'He's supportive enough about _your _work.'

Mycroft's jaw no less than dropped. He closed it and tried to be nonchalant. 'Do you speak French, John?'

'Je t'ai déjà expliqué que-'

'_John_,' repeated Mycroft shortly.

'Nope,' said John, grinning at Sherlock.

'Je te l'ai bien dit!' Sherlock cried at his brother. 'Il a ce génie curieux! Qui ne s'explique pas!'

'I'm freaking him out by understanding what he's saying,' John explained to Mycroft, who still looked gobsmacked. 'I think it's payback, really. I didn't get the German - I didn't know him as well then, though.'

Mycroft looked thoughtful.

'Tu étais en train de nous dire ce qui t'a amené ici,' Sherlock interrupted.

'Was I? I really don't think I was,' retorted Mycroft. 'I was just engaging in pleasant conversation with John. You should try it sometime.'

'Je faisais de gros progrès avant ton arrivée,' lamented Sherlock with a lazy gesture towards John.

'Too great, you said,' quipped Mycroft.

'You were talking to me in _French_,' John pointed out. 'I think he means general conversation, with other people. Not me, I don't count.'

'Exactly,' Mycroft nodded, and then fixed John with yet another stare.

'Toi non plus, tu ne comptes pas,' objected Sherlock, waving disdainfully in the general direction of the chair. 'Tu devrais te mettre à plat ventre - ou rond, en ton cas. C'est grâce à Jean que tu es encore en vie; je ne t'aurais pas supporté jusqu'ici sans lui.'

'Jean,' repeated Mycroft, this time as though he didn't know whom he was addressing.

'Yeah, I know,' John laughed. He had had the impression, from Sherlock's malingering smirk, that there was an insult in there somewhere, so it was strange that it had gone over Mycroft's head. 'He has to go the whole hog. Come on, Sherlock, people do visit their siblings.'

'Tu n'aimes pas ta soeur,' protested Sherlock, opening one eye defiantly.

'Mine's an alcoholic.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. 'Le mien est le gouvernement britannique. On ne t'a jamais dit de ne pas te fier aux hommes politiques, Jean?'

'Please, I'm not a politician,' said Mycroft, aghast.

'If I don't trust your brother it's because he tries to pay people to spy on you, not because of his job,' John grinned. Mycroft turned to him, astonished. 'Nah, don't worry, Mycroft, I do trust you. Despite your creepy black cars. I know it was a test. Overbearing big brother syndrome. And a bit of a power complex,' he added apologetically.

Sherlock seemed torn between amusement at Mycroft's speechlessness, and annoyance at the fact that John had just expressed trust in the elder Holmes. 'Tu nous _disais _ce qui t'a - ' he began.

'Sherlock,' John cut in, 'when you have a guest you don't keep trying to get them to leave.'

'I taught him that; he must have deleted it,' Mycroft remarked.

'Comment aurais-je pu distinguer entre tes jeux de flagornerie et ce qui était vraiment utile?' snapped Sherlock. 'J'ai préféré le découvrir tout seul.'

'Yes, I know,' said Mycroft regretfully.

John observed the look that passed between them and shrugged. 'Sherlock doesn't like being told things. He likes telling. So you've got to make him think he thought of it. That's all.'

Mycroft's surprise was matched only by Sherlock's outrage as he sat up and poked his finger in the air at John. 'Qu'est-ce que tu racontes? Menteur! Tu me donnes des ordres sans relâche! Tu me fais manger! Et dormir! Deux activités complètement inutiles et je les supporte _uniquement _pour toi!'

That could have been practically any objection. John turned to Mycroft.

'Food,' said the elder Holmes.

'Oh.' John nodded. 'That's doctor's orders, Sherlock. That's different. Only a fool argues with his doctor, so there's no way you'd go there.'

Even though Mycroft helped him with that one, John's reply produced the same stunned reaction. He held his arms up in bewildered surrender. 'All right, what gives? He'sspeaking in French, you'reanswering like it's all normal, and I'm just trying to understand my flatmate and _I'm _the one you're looking at as if I'm weird? What's going on? Have I actually been getting everything wrong?'

'No, John,' said Mycroft directly. 'You're getting it right. That's what's remarkable. Now while I am accustomed to Sherlock's linguistic… phases - '

John rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, it's probably nothing to you; you can understand them.'

'But you can understand him too,' protested Mycroft. 'Are you sure you don't speak French? Perhaps you have a latent talent for languages?'

Sherlock and John scoffed at the same time, and Sherlock interjected, 'Lui? Fort en langues étrangères? Il a d'autres méthodes d'expression à employer avec les femmes.'

'Hey, I _do _know how to say "Do you want to sleep with me?" in French,' John retorted.

'Charming,' Mycroft interrupted smoothly. 'But you do seem to have a natural instinct - '

'Balivernes!'

'Sherlock,' said Mycroft warningly, like a parent trying to silence an overly loquacious child at a formal dinner.

'Mais je te le _jure_, il est _nul _en langues étrangères,' Sherlock insisted. Sherlock gestured to John, looking him up and down almost appraisingly. John had never imagined he would not find it unsettling to feel like a corpse. 'Regarde-le! C'est l'officier et le gentleman par excellence!'

'Did you actually just compare me to characters out of an American rom-com?' John demanded. 'Have you _seen _that film?'

Mycroft steeled himself and pursed his lips at his younger brother, but his gaze wasn't angry; rather, he seemed intrigued. He turned back to John with a new-found determination so uncharacteristic that John felt a sudden desire to sink into the stuffing of his chair. 'Sherlock semble convaincu que vos compétences en langues étrangères sont insuffisantes,' he drawled. 'Ça veut dire qu'il y a un autre élément à considérer, peut-être le fait que ce soit… Sherlock? Vous ne parlez peut-être pas français, mais il me semble que vous parliez très bien la langue de _Sherlock_, quoi que ce soit.'

_Bugger the lot of them. _Sherlock spluttered on the couch. John stared at Mycroft incredulously. 'Don't you start,' he groaned. 'I didn't get a word of that.'

'Pas un seul mot?' Mycroft looked positively enthralled. 'Intéressant. Je dirais que je parle plus lentement, plus clairement et sans ambages, parce que je n'essaie pas de vous impressionner, j'essaie plutôt de vous faire comprendre; mais évidemment, cela n'est pas important.'

John glanced at Sherlock hesitantly.

'Il dit qu'il est mieux en français que moi,' said Sherlock with a churlish glare. 'Il se demande pourquoi tu me comprends, moi et non pas lui.' Thankfully he was particularly generous with his gestures; he pointed to himself with both hands, before waving them at Mycroft as if that would wave him away.

'Erm, I don't think it's anything to do with how you're speaking,' John said to Mycroft doubtfully. 'I don't understand French. It's not because he's speaking French that I understand him, he's just… Sherlock. I can tell his moods from his walks, for God's sake.'

'Qu'est-ce qu'elle a, mon allure?' exclaimed Sherlock.

For once, John heard the actual French word. 'Allure?' He felt his ears go red. 'I didn't say anything about alluring.'

Across from him, Mycroft snorted in a rather un-Mycroft-like manner. 'You really _don't _speak French,' he said as though John had just presented him with a particularly sugary chocolate cake. 'Allure means "walk", John.'

'Oh.' John felt like a complete idiot. _Stick to the plan - listen to Sherlock! Not the words!_ 'Oh, right. Well, your walk is… um… You've got a few. There's your "Get your coat, John, we've got a case" walk, there's the bored walk, there's the "Look at me with my swishy coat and my deductions" walk, there's the "I've done something stupid and there's no way I'll admit it so I'll just slope off" walk…'

'Je ne fais jamais rien de stupide,' grumbled Sherlock.

'Yes you do.'

'Mes déductions sont très importantes, Jean,' he said sternly. 'J'ai déjà fait trop de compromis pour toi en supportant que des versions romanesques de nos enquêtes apparaissent sur ton blog pour que la populace les _gobe _comme les bulletins sur "qui couche avec qui" que tu continues à lire,' he parroted severely - the usual barrage of proud criticism, no doubt. 'Ne fais pas comme si mon travail est à la mode!'

'You wouldn't be getting any clients without my blog,' John pointed out.

Mycroft set the empty mug down on the table. 'Well, all is in order, it seems,' he said pensively. 'I'd better be going.'

'What did you come for?' blurted John at the same time as Sherlock exclaimed, 'Que diable est-ce que tu imaginais en venant ici sans même nous apporter d'enquête?'

John studied Sherlock's outraged but almost disappointed expression and knew that it couldn't be because Sherlock was sad to see his brother go. He turned to Mycroft, who was watching Sherlock with the beleaguered amusement of a babysitter who has just returned a screaming but adorable toddler to its parents. 'No case?' John asked almost pleadingly.

'No; in fact, I came to give you this.' Mycroft proffered a small piece of paper, which John accepted, hesitantly. It was a cheque for £1000 - made out to J.H. Watson.

He looked at the elder Holmes blankly. 'I didn't… spy on him,' he protested rather inadequately. 'What is this for?'

'It's Sherlock's monthly allowance,' Mycroft explained casually.

'What?'

'Pourquoi est-ce que tu le donnes à lui?' asked Sherlock defensively. 'Je suis capable de diriger ma propre situation.'

'Yes, Sherlock, thanks to my careful overseeing,' Mycroft said impatiently, 'but this month, the only thing that you could possibly want to buy is a present for John's birthday, and being as I doubt you'd be so considerate as to go out and get one, I think we can safely assume that you won't object to the perfectly sensible solution of just giving him your allowance so that he can purchase one himself. He's a prudent man, he'll use the rest accordingly, bills and such like.'

John opened and closed his mouth several times, and settled for trying to shove the cheque back at Mycroft. 'I - er - Mycroft, you can't - this is Sherlock's, I can't just - '

'Bien sûr que tu peux le prendre,' Sherlock interrupted, sounding bored. He had pulled himself up into a sitting position and was glaring at Mycroft. 'J'applaudis tes méthodes,' he said reluctantly, 'mais comment se peut-il que l'anniversaire de John arrive à mon insu?' He looked at John as if he felt inadequate and it was _John's _fault.

'You don't do birthdays, Sherlock,' John shrugged awkwardly.

'Je ne fête pas _mon _anniversaire,' Sherlock corrected.

'You don't celebrate anyone else's, either.'

'Il n'y a… je n'ai jamais… je n'ai jamais eu personne dont j'aurais pu fêter l'anniversaire,' Sherlock replied, lowering his gaze.

'Mine,' suggested Mycroft. 'And there was Victor.'

'Victor! Ce qu'il pouvait être ennuyeux,' said Sherlock almost hastily. 'Et le tien? Tu es mon frère _aîné_. C'est _ton _devoir de fêter _mon _anniversaire.'

'Of course,' said Mycroft, rolling his eyes.

'On fête ton anniversaire,' Sherlock said to John, firmly. He nodded at the cheque. 'Prends-le. Il a raison, c'est une bonne idée.'

'Sherlock, no, this is your monthly allowance,' John argued. He felt like a child arguing with a friend about whose pocket money to spend at the tuck shop.

'Le loyer réclame la moitié,' replied Sherlock dismissively. 'Tu pourrais t'en occuper - pour moi, c'est un souci de moins.' He smirked at John.

'You bloody lazy git.'

'C'est pour cela que tu m'aimes.'

John didn't understand this time. Mycroft, however, raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat. 'Good day, then,' he said loudly.

'See you, Mycroft,' said John casually, his eyes lingering on Sherlock before he reluctantly turned to offer the elder Holmes a smile in farewell.

'Bonne journée, Mycroft, occupe-toi bien d'Europe, on ne veut pas de Troisième Guerre Mondiale.'

Mycroft's lips compressed into a thin line and he tapped his umbrella on the floor in agitation. He was about to leave, thank goodness, but he paused in the doorway and turned, a thoughtful look on his face. John and Sherlock both looked at him expectantly - Sherlock waiting for him to go, John for him to speak. Eventually he smiled at John rather warily. John knew that look - it was the look ordinary people gave him upon hearing that he had been in the army. Distanced admiration. Of course he had never had that from Mycroft regarding his career as a soldier. _So why now?_

'Well done, John, you should attempt Linear A,' he said quietly. 'No one in the world has ever managed to decipher Sherlock-speak before.'

Before John could react to that, Mycroft had gone, his umbrella making an uncomfortable clink against the door frame that umbrellas just weren't supposed to make. John turned to Sherlock, shaking his head in confusion and expecting Sherlock to shrug back, but Sherlock was avoiding his gaze and looked practically humble.

'So, where were we?' asked John, rubbing his hands against his trouser legs to make _some_ noise.

'On va fêter ton anniversaire,' said Sherlock rather sheepishly.

'Yeah, all right. We'll go to Angelo's or something.' He brandished the cheque. 'You can treat me.'

Sherlock smiled. 'Tu devras choisir un cadeau, en plus. Une fois payé le loyer, je te défens d'économiser le reste, c'est banal.'

John inferred from the gesticulating that Sherlock was suggesting he go wild with the cash. 'I know - why don't you choose it?'

'Mais je ne saurais nullement quoi choisir,' objected Sherlock, horrified. 'C'est pourquoi Mycroft t'a donné le chèque! Pour que tu le choisisses toi-même! Tu ne veux pas de… cerveau de chèvre, j'en suis sûr.'

'We can go out, you can point out things I might like, but I've got the money, so there'll be no waste.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. 'Ce n'est pas ce qu'on fait normalement.'

John crinkled his in affectionate amusement. 'This is you and me, Sherlock.'

Sherlock smiled again, a smile of pure innocence. Completely at odds with the mischievous bugger who had been planning on insulting him and gloating at his lack of reaction.

'Hey, wait a minute,' John said suddenly, halting on that thought. 'Your plan. Come on. I want to hear whatever it was that you were going to say to me in French.'

'Ce n'est plus important,' said Sherlock quickly, picking up his sheet music again.

'No, go on. I've done well here. I think you owe me one. You're not getting out of it now.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Ce n'est que des… conneries,' the word sounded false and defiant, as if, in English, he had tried to deliver a monologue in a Cockney accent to divert attention from its subject. 'C'est complètement bête, je voulais te le dire en français parce que tu m'aurais ri au nez si tu avais compris…'

John had stopped listening to Sherlock entirely and saw only the nervous expression spreading across his friend's face. He looked almost unsure of himself. Despite the fact that Sherlock was obviously in a predicament, John found himself smiling slowly. 'You weren't going to insult me at all,' he said incredulously. 'You were going to say nice things to me! In French! So I didn't skit you about it!'

Sherlock's head disappeared behind the violin music.

'Honestly, Sherlock, you're a daft bugger,' John said warmly.

'Tu insistes toujours pour que je les dise?' Sherlock grumbled. He looked at John as though he expected to be hit.

'Just one will do, I'll let you off, seeing as that's genuinely quite sweet.'

Sherlock put down the music with a sigh and clasped his hands, looking across at John piercingly. After one of the most intense staring contests of John's life, Sherlock let out a _whoosh _of breath that could have given his coat a run for its money, and said, 'Je suis très content de t'avoir rencontré. Je n'imagine plus ma vie sans toi.'

John had absolutely no idea what Sherlock said, but more than ever he heard feeling in the words. He smiled. 'Yeah. Me too, Sherlock.'

'Une autre tasse de thé sera parfaite,' Sherlock responded immediately, flopping into his usual extended position; John could see that he was trying to look cool, but his breathing was just slightly too deliberate.

'Yeah, that's a good plan,' John replied calmly, standing up and collecting the mugs.

He was in the process of filling the kettle when he heard Sherlock come into the kitchen behind him. 'Puisque tu m'as obligé de te donner une preuve,' the detective began mysteriously, to John's well-disguised horror, 'j'exige, à mon tour, une réponse en français.' John looked up at him, and he gave him that nod that he gave him when he wanted him to examine Carl Powers' shoes.

'What?' asked John, bewildered.

'Vas-y,' said Sherlock loftily.

'I don't know what you're asking me.'

'En français,' said Sherlock.

The manner - reminiscent of those secondary school language teachers who spent more time barking that no English was allowed than they did actually speaking the language they taught - informed John of what Sherlock was getting at. He sighed. 'You want me to speak back to you in French? I don't speak it,' he said summarily.

'Tu m'as bien protesté que si,' said Sherlock triumphantly. 'Tu m'as dit que tu peux dire, "Do you want to sleep with me?" en français.'

The sudden return to Sherlock's posh English accent was disconcerting, to say the least, even before one considered _what _he was saying; but with the whole situation put together, this was one of the most bizarre things John had ever experienced. He paused to verify that Sherlock Holmes had just demanded to hear how he would attempt a sexual proposition in French. 'Nah, Sherlock, I was just saving face. It's just out of a song.'

'Tu pourrais au moins essayer,' pleaded Sherlock with a clearly feigned look of immense misery.

John sighed and ran his hand down his face. 'Voulez-vous coucher avec moi,' he said curtly.

'C'est une _question_, Jean,' Sherlock reproached him, an infuriating smirk on his face.

'Oh, you want me to act it now?' John whirled around and gave Sherlock his best 'don't take me on' glare. 'Fine.' He stood back, eased into his best seductive pose, put on a dazzling smile and said coyly, 'Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?'

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. Then he tilted his head in mild appreciation and said, 'Pas mal.'

'Pas mal?' John balked. 'Is that it? Pas mal? I'll have you know, Sherlock Holmes - '

'Mais afin que tu le saches la prochaine fois: on se tutoie, maintenant, Jean; on est amis.' Sherlock smirked. It was lethal.

'What? What did you say?'

'Oh, that would be telling.'

'Sherlock,' John fumed, 'you just made me practise a French pick-up line on you. You can at least tell me what you just bloody said.'

Sherlock reached past a rather flustered John and poured the water from the kettle into their mugs. 'I said,' he said mischievously, 'that we can use the informal you.'

John waited. 'That means nothing to me,' he stammered.

No luck. 'You didn't ask me what I meant, John,' Sherlock sang on the way out of the kitchen with his tea.

The name 'John', good old English John, brought him back down to earth before he had even registered that they were descending. Touch base from Planet Sherlock, for now. The doctor gripped both sides of the sink and let all his pent-up frustration out in one loud sigh. He screwed up his eyes and shook his head. 'Bloody frogs,' he muttered. He toyed with the idea of demanding to know what Sherlock meant by the 'informal you', but decided he'd probably sleep better if he didn't.

Besides, his thoughts were currently preoccupied with Sherlock's laughter, which was making its way up to the ceiling of the other room, and with an absolutely unspeakable curiosity as to what his name would sound like in all the other languages Sherlock inevitably spoke.


End file.
